A Night in the Cemetery

by Anton Chekhov

  No matter how frightening it is, it was a beautiful sight, people have to admit.

  They hear the sound of thunder, someone making heavy steps on the iron roof of the house.

  “Ivan, is it you?” asks Sam.

  “Yes, I am here with Anastasia.”

  “You can fall down from the roof, boy! Can you see better from over there?”

  “Yes, I can. It is in the Kreshensky village, brothers!”

  “We can probably see it better through the top window in the attic, right under the roof,” says Maria Sergeevna. “Maybe we can go there and have a look?”

  The sight of the disaster brings people closer together. Sam and both Gabriels go into the house. With pale faces, they tremble all over, waiting to get a better glimpse of this sight. They maneuver though the rooms and climb the stairs to the top, headed for the attic. It is dark there. The candle held by Gabriel the butler does not light this darkness, but only allows dim spots to be seen around them. The landlady sees the attic for the first time. Its beams, the dark corners, the chimney pipes, the smell of the spiders’ webs and dust, and the floor covered with a layer of soil—all this looks like a stage designed for a fairy tale.

  “Is it the place where the house sprite lives?” she thinks.

  They can see the fire better. A long and bright golden line stretches along the horizon. It moves and flows like a liquid.

  “Look, it seems that more than one house is on fire.”

  “Yes, brother, at least half of the village is burning,” says Gabriel the groom.

  “Listen! The church bells have stopped! It means that the church must be on fire!”

  “Their church is made of wood,” says the landlady, suffocating from the heavy smell coming from the Sam’s sheepskin coat. “What a misfortune!”

  They all look for as long as they can, and then head down. Soon, the landlord, Nikolai Alexeevich, has returned home. He has had quite a few drinks while visiting his friends, and now drunk, he snores loudly, his body slumped in the carriage. As they wake him up, he looks at the glow with a blank expression on his face, and says,

  “Give me a saddled horse! Faster! F-a-a-aster!”

  “Please, don’t go there!” his wife says vehemently. “Tell me, how can you go anywhere in your state? Go back to sleep!”

  “A horse,” he orders, ignoring her as he turns around. He is brought a horse. He climbs into the saddle, shakes his head, and then disappears into the darkness.

  The dogs continue to howl and bark incessantly, as if they sense a wolf or danger. Women and young boys begin to gather around Sam and both Gabriels. The people keep making loud exclamations and sighs, making the sign of the cross regularly.

  A horse rider rushes into the yard.

  “Six people burned alive,” he mumbles, out of breath. “Half of the village is burned. Carpenter Sam’s mother has burned.”

  The landlady’s impatience has reached its limits. The constant movements of people around her and loud conversations have excited her. She orders a carriage and goes off to see the fire in person. The night is cold and dark. The soil is slightly hardened by the early-morning frost, and the horseshoes make a knocking sound against it, like hitting a carpet. Gabriel the butler sits next to the groom, impatiently moving in his seat. He constantly turns his head, looking back and mumbling something, as if the fate of the Kreshensky village depends solely on him.

  “The most important thing is not to let the fire grow bigger,” he mutters. “They should know this, but how could those peasants know anything?”

  After they go for five or six miles, the landlady sees something so awful—something which not everyone should see more than once in their lifetime, if at all. The whole village is alit, as if it’s a huge bonfire. The constantly moving massive flame blinds her. Everything is completely immersed in this fire, as if in fog: the houses, the trees, and the church. The bright light, as bright as noon, is mixed with clouds of smoke and transparent vapor. These golden tongues slide along the black carcasses, licking them, and flickering joyfully. The clouds of red and golden dust fly up into the sky and, as if made on purpose, give the stronger impression of a flock of alarmed doves diving into these clouds of smoke and fire. A strange mixture of sound is filling the air—the terrible noise of cracking wood; the flickering of the flame in the wind, which reminds of thousands of bird wings—mixed with human voices, animal sounds, and the squeaking of wheels.

  The church is a terrible sight. Flames and clouds of dense, dark smoke fly from its windows. The church tower hangs above the massive flame, as if it’s a dark giant; it is completely burned, but the bells still hang. No one knows why they have not yet fallen.

  Swarms of people are pushing each other, reminiscent of a village fair, or the first ferry after the river floods in spring. People, horses, carriages, piles of belongings, barrels—all this moves, stumbles, and makes noises. The landlady looks at this chaos and hears the piercing cry of her husband:

  “Send him to the hospital! Pour some water on him!”

  Gabriel the butler stands on the cart, waving with his hands. He is well lit, and with his long shadow appears much taller than in real life.

  “It is obvious that someone set this on fire,” he cries, moving about. “Hey, you! You should have stopped the fire, and not let it grow! You should not let it grow!”

  All around her, the landlady could see pale, stupid, motionless faces, as if carved from wood. The dogs are howling, the hens shrieking in fright.

  “Let me pass! Let me pass!” cry the neighbors, who have just arrived.

  What an unusual picture! Maria Sergeevna does not believe her eyes, and if not for the great heat, she would have believed that this was all a dream.

  IGNORAMUS

  A young man, blond and broad-faced, in a torn sheepskin and big, black felt boots, waited until the local doctor, having completed his appointments, left the hospital to go home, and approached him hesitatingly.

  “My dear sir,” he began.

  “What do you want?”

  The young man passed the palm of his hand upward along his nose, looked at the sky, and then answered:

  “To your grace…. You’ve got my brother Basil, the blacksmith from Varvarino, in the ward of convicts here, your lordship.”

  “Yes, so what?”

  “Well, I mean to say, I’m Basil’s brother…. Our father has the two of us: he is Basil, and I am Kirila. And three sisters apart from us, and Basil’s a married man with a child now…. A big family, and no one to work…. See, we haven’t heated the fire in the forge for two years now. I’m at the cotton factory, I’m no blacksmith, and father—there isn’t any use for him as a worker, I should say, when he can’t get his spoon to his mouth right.”

  “So what do you want from me?”

  “Do me a favor, sir, let Basil go!”

  The doctor looked at Kirila with surprise, and, without saying a word, walked on. The young man ran in front of him and fell down at his feet.

  “Doctor, gracious master!” he implored, blinking and passing the palm of his hand along his nose again. “Reveal heavenly grace, let Basil go home! You’ll make me pray to God for you forever! Your lordship, do let him go! The family is dying of hunger! Mother’s wailing all day long, Basil’s wife’s wailing, it’s terrible! I wouldn’t see the light of day, if I could. Do me a favor, gracious master, let him go!”

  “Are you a fool or are you out of your mind?” asked the doctor, looking angrily at him. “How possibly can I let him go? He is a convict.”

  Kirila started to cry. “Let him go!”

  “Oh dear, what an odd man you are! What right do I have to do it? I’m not a jailer, am I? They brought him to the hospital for me to treat him, but I have no more right to let him go than to put you in prison, you silly man!”

  “But they put him in prison for nothing! He spent a whole year there before trial, and why should he stay there now, is all I’m asking. It would’ve been a different th
ing if he’d murdered someone, or, say, stole horses; but it’s just for nothing at all.”

  “I still don’t see what I can do about it.”

  “They sent him to prison for no reason. He was drunk, your lordship, he didn’t remember anything, and he even stroked father on the ear, he cut his own cheek through on a branch, and two of our villagers—see, they wanted some Turkish tobacco—told him to break into the Armenian man’s shop at night to get tobacco. And drunk as he was, he agreed, the fool. They broke the lock, you know, got in, and made a complete mess. Everything upside down, windows broken, flour all over the floor. They were drunk, in short! Well, the constable turned up … this and that, and they took him to the investigator. They’ve been in prison the whole year, and a week ago, it was Wednesday, they were tried in town, all three of them. A soldier with a gun stood behind them … people swore an oath. Basil is less guilty than anyone, and so the gentlemen decided that he was the mastermind behind the whole thing. The two fellows went to prison, and Basil to a convict battalion for three years. And what for? Judge it yourself as it should be!”

  “I’ve nothing to do with it, I tell you. You’d better go to the authorities.”

  “I’ve been there already! I was in court, I wanted to submit a petition—they wouldn’t take it. I went to the sheriff, and I saw the investigator, and everyone I spoke to just said, ‘It’s not my business!’ Whose business is it, then? And in the hospital, there’s no one above you. You do whatever you like, your lordship.”

  “What a fool you are,” sighed the doctor. “If the jury found him guilty, neither the governor, nor even the minister is in any position to change anything, let alone the sheriff. There’s no use in your bustling about!”

  “And who judged him, then?”

  “Gentlemen of the jury …”

  “There’s no way they’re gentlemen, they were folks from our village. Andrew Guryev was there, and Alexander Huk.”

  “Well, I am getting cold standing around and talking to you….”

  The doctor waved his hand and walked quickly to his door. Kirila wanted to follow him, but, seeing the door slam, he stopped.

  For about ten minutes he stood motionless in the middle of the hospital yard, and standing without his cap on, stared at the doctor’s flat, then he took a deep breath, scratched himself slowly, and went to the gate.

  “Who shall I go to?” he muttered as he went out on the road. “One says it’s not his business, another says it’s not his business. Whose business is it, then? Yeah, that’s true, you won’t get nothing till you grease their palms. When the doctor talked to me, he kept looking at my fist all the time, as if I’d give him a five. Well, brother, I’ll go to the governor himself, if I have to.”

  Shifting from one foot to the other and looking around him every now and then without any purpose, he dragged himself lazily along the road, apparently making up his mind about where to go…. It was not cold and the snow crunched faintly under his feet. Not more than half a mile away, the small town lay on a hill in front of him, where his brother had been tried not long ago. The dark spot of the town prison under the red roof with sentry boxes at the corners was on his right; on his left was the central park, now covered with hoarfrost. It was quiet, there was just an old man walking ahead, wearing a lady’s jacket and a huge cap. He coughed and yelled at a cow that he was driving into town.

  “Hello, grandfather,” said Kirila, overtaking him.

  “Hello …”

  “Will you sell it in town?”

  “No, it’s just here with me,” the old man answered lazily.

  “Are you from town?”

  They got to talking. Kirila told him what he had been to the hospital for and what he had talked about with the doctor.

  “Sure, the doctor doesn’t know these things,” the old man was telling him as they came into town. “He’s a gentleman, that’s right, but all he knows is how to cure things with drugs. But to get real advice, or, say, write a statement for you—he has no understanding of it. For this, there are special authorities. You’ve seen the magistrate and the sheriff—they are of no help to you in this affair.”

  “Where should I go, then?”

  “The most important man who is placed to settle all the peasants’ affairs is a permanent member of the council. You should go to him, Mr. Sineokov.”

  “Is he in Zolotovo?”

  “Yes, in Zolotovo. He is the most powerful man. If it’s something to do with you peasants’ affairs, even the sheriff has no full right against him.”

  “It’s a long way to go, old fellow…. About twelve miles or even more, I’d say.”

  “When you need something badly, you’d go a hundred.”

  “True…. Shall I give a petition to him, or what?”

  “You’ll find out there. If it’s a petition, the clerk will easily write it for you. The permanent member has a clerk.”

  Having parted from the old man, Kirila stood in the middle of the square, thought it over and went away from the town. He decided to go to Zolotovo.

  Five days later, as the doctor was walking home after seeing his patients, he saw Kirila in his yard again. This time he was not alone but with a thin and very pale old man who kept nodding his head like a pendulum, and mumbled with his lips.

  “Your lordship, I’ve come to see you,” Kirila started. “This is my father; please do us a favor, let Basil go! The permanent member didn’t want to talk to me. He said: ‘Go away!’”

  “Your lordship,” the old man hissed with his throat, raising his trembling brows. “Be gracious! We’re poor people, we cannot thank your honor properly, but if you so wish, Kiriushka here or Basil can work for you. Let them work.”

  “We’ll work for you,” said Kirila, and raised his hand as if wishing to take an oath. “Let him go! They’re dying with hunger, crying their eyes out, your lordship!”

  The young man glanced quickly at his father, pulled him by the sleeve, and both of them, as if on command, fell down at the doctor’s feet. The latter waved his hand hopelessly, and, without looking back, walked quickly to his door.

  TASK

  The strictest measures are taken to keep the Uskovs’ family secret within the walls of their house. One half of the servants have been sent to the theater and the circus, and the others are sitting in the kitchen and not allowed out. It has been ordered that no visitors be received. The wife of the uncle, the Colonel, her sister, and the governess, although initiated into the secret, pretend they do not know anything; they are sitting in the dining room and do not show up in the drawing room or the hall.

  Sasha Uskov, a young man of twenty-five, the cause of the turmoil, arrived long ago and, advised by his defender, his uncle on his mother’s side, Ivan Markovich, a kind man, he is now sitting humbly in the hall next to the study’s door, getting ready for a sincere, open explanation.

  Behind the door a family council is taking place. The subject is highly disagreeable and delicate. Sasha Uskov sold a false promissory note to a bank, and three days ago the note became due for payment. At present, his two uncles on his father’s side, and Ivan Markovich, his uncle on his mother’s side, are considering whether they should pay the note and save the family honor, or wash their hands of it and let the case go to court.

  To outsiders with no personal interest in the issue, such matters seem simple; meanwhile, for those who have the misfortune to resolve them in a serious way, they turn out to be exceedingly difficult. The uncles have been talking for a long time, but they have not come a single step nearer to the solution.

  “Gentlemen!” says the uncle Colonel, his voice sounding tired and bitter. “Gentlemen, who says that family honor is a mere prejudice? I don’t say that at all. All I want is to warn you against a false opinion and reveal the possibility of a fatal mistake. How can you not see it? I am not speaking Chinese, after all, I am speaking Russian!”

  “We do understand it, my dear,” Ivan Markovich states gently.

  “H
ow do you understand it then, when you say that I deny family honor? I repeat it once again: fa-mi-ly ho-nor is a prejudice when false-ly un-der-stood! Falsely understood! That’s what I say! It is against the law to conceal a swindler and help him get away with it for whatever reasons you may have and whoever he may be. It is unworthy of a gentleman, it is not saving family honor; it’s civic cowardice! Take the army, for example. We value the honor of the army above all else, yet we don’t conceal the army’s guilty members, but send them to trial. And does the honor of the army suffer because of it? Quite the opposite!”

  The other paternal uncle, a Treasury official, a taciturn, narrow-minded, and rheumatic man, either keeps silence or has only one subject on his mind: if the case goes to court, the Uskov name will certainly get into the newspapers. In his opinion, the case should be hushed up from the very beginning and not made known to the public. Apart from referring to the newspapers, he has no other arguments to support his position.

  The maternal uncle, kind Ivan Markovich, speaks smoothly, softly, and with a tremor in his voice. He starts by saying that youth has its rights and that passion goes hand in hand with it. Is there anyone among us who has not been young, and has not been carried away? Even great men fall prey to temptation and errors in their youth, let alone simple mortals. Take the biographies of great writers, for example.

  Was there one among them who, when he was young, did not gamble, drink, or enrage his elders? If Sasha’s mistake borders on crime, then they must take into account that Sasha has received practically no education, as he was expelled from fifth grade in secondary school. As a little boy, he lost his parents, and thus, has known no supervision and good, benevolent influences from a tender age. He is a nervous, easily excitable young man, who has no firm ground underneath his feet and, above all, who has known no happiness in life. Even if he is guilty, he still deserves the indulgence and sympathy of all compassionate souls. He should be punished, of course, but he is already punished by his conscience and the suffering that he is going through now, while waiting for the decision of his relatives.